It is beautiful irony
the way in which
I have grown accustomed
to the phenomenon of you.

We were water in the open air;
Fluidly in tune
and with each ripple across the surface
I fell deeper in love
with the way that you moved.

The subtle ways in which
you're stir your tea;
the steam reminding you of last night
when our bodies waged wars
and conquered one another.

The revolutionary ardor
that decorated the smile you paraded around;
teasing the feeble flesh of men
that craved a sip
of your poisonous nectar.

I have grown accustomed
to the way in which the confusion
pulls the veil over my eyes
as you give away pieces of my heart
disguising them as your own.